


The Sound That You Found For Me

by philalethia



Series: Spoiled Kitty 'Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Collars, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, First Time, Kink Exploration, M/M, Pet Play, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds a leather collar in John's bedroom. Which is <em>very</em> interesting, indeed. Now if only John would cooperate, Sherlock thinks this could work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound That You Found For Me

John had taken his cigarettes again, and this time did not have the courtesy to be home when Sherlock’s patience began to fray.

He tore apart the sitting room, then the kitchen, before climbing the stairs to John’s bedroom, where he had to proceed more carefully. Because John would tolerate Sherlock making a mess of the rest of the flat, but any sign that Sherlock had stepped foot into his room put John in a strop for days.

“You tried to think like me,” Sherlock said, as he stood just inside John’s room and mimed holding a pack of cigarettes in his left hand. “You tried to be more clever than me.”

But John wouldn’t have been able to. More than that, John would have recognised that he wouldn’t have been able to. He would have given up. He wouldn’t have even tried to hide the cigarettes.

“Of course. Somewhere obvious,” Sherlock said. “You assumed I would overlook the obvious.”

He strode to the first thing he caught sight of—John’s bedside table—and threw open the top drawer. Condoms, lubricant, tissues, all predictable given John’s high sex drive, and then—

Sherlock cocked his head and reached inside.

A thin strip of black leather with a silver buckle, silver studs, a silver ring in the centre that jingled as he lifted it from the drawer. A collar. Interesting. Too short to fit comfortably around John’s throat—Sherlock tested it around his own just to be sure and found that it cut unpleasantly into his skin—it was probably custom-made for someone with an especially petite neck.

 _Very_ interesting.

Sherlock replaced the collar and retreated to the sitting room to think.

*

(Sherlock had been thirteen, at school. He had memorised the periodic table ages ago—which had hardly been difficult; the information _had_ been organised visually after all, and even an idiot could look at a picture and later recall its content—and upon realising this, his teacher had been awed.

“Very impressive, Mr Holmes!” she had said. “However did you manage that?”

Sherlock’s cock, which had thus far seemed generally uninterested in any part of his waking life, had twitched in his trousers and begun to thicken.

It was dull, tediously common, not even unique enough for humanity to have labelled it a proper kink, and worst of all, it was so _obvious_. If it had been something like over-the-knee spanking or erotic asphyxiation, Sherlock would have enjoyed piecing it apart, investigating the psychology of the concept from all angles until he had discovered why it appealed to him. But _this._

Sherlock’s peers thought him a freak; Mycroft found him perpetually lacking in comparison to himself; Sherlock’s parents were distant and oblivious—and then one insignificant person offered him a bit of praise, and his sexuality lit up like a Christmas tree.

It was so simple. Sherlock had been horrified.)

*

He paced the sitting room, hands clasped in front of him.

The collar was John’s. Well, of course it was John’s—it was in his drawer, there was no one else it could belong to—but _it was John’s_. It had been bought to be worn by someone else, yes, doubtlessly a female, but if it had been bought _for_ her, John wouldn’t still have it. And John hadn’t dated in months—Sherlock kept close tabs on that front—so he wasn’t simply holding onto the collar temporarily. He owned it. It was _his_ : his accessory, his interest.

Surprising. Sherlock loved when people surprised him.

“Collar,” Sherlock muttered, his pace slowing to a stop. He closed his eyes, brought his fingers to his lips. “Sign of dominance, control. Ownership. Could be a source of humiliation or pride, depending on the context.”

It called to mind the idea of slavery—not an idea Sherlock would generally associate with John, but human sexuality was notoriously complicated. Sherlock conjured the image of someone— _Wrong!_ he scolded himself _—_ the image of _himself_ kneeling at John’s feet, gazing up adoringly.

“Master,” said Sherlock, testing the word, the idea. “Sir.”

No. He grimaced. Horrid. It didn’t sound appealing at all.

Then he imagined John’s hand in his hair, John gazing down at _him_ adoringly, John murmuring, _Good boy. That’s perfect, Sherlock. You’re magnificent._ And oh. Yes.

Yes, Sherlock decided with a shiver, that would do very nicely.

*

(“The police don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock had said, and John had answered, “That… was amazing.” Then: “It was extraordinary, it was _quite_ extraordinary.” Then, much later: “That’s brilliant” and “That’s fantastic!”

Sherlock hadn’t become aroused—his body, no longer thirteen, thankfully understood the importance of context—but the pleasure had been sharp, a spark in his abdomen that he’d been able to feel all the way in his toes. He’d wanted more. He’d been almost desperate for it.

Then, much, much later, alone in the flat, Sherlock had touched himself and sighed, “You’re extraordinary, you are _quite_ extraordinary,” imagining it was John’s voice instead of his own, John watching with rapt admiration as he arched into his own hand, mouthing John’s name as he came.)

*

“Is there a reason,” John said, surveying the sitting room from the door, “that it looks like the Tasmanian Devil passed through here?”

“The what?” said Sherlock, although he was scarcely paying attention. The discovery of the collar had thrown open a door in his mind palace, and now his brain was racing.

John was attracted to him, had been for ages—only an idiot could have missed the signs—but Sherlock had done nothing. Too complicated, the introduction of sex and deeper sentiment into a friendship, too great a potential for mess.

But _now_ —John as an army captain (controlling), John as a doctor (caring), John as a friend (trusting, unfailing), John as a colleague (fawning, adoring), perhaps John as a lover would be some amalgamation of them all?—Sherlock could no longer fathom leaving the issue alone. But how to broach it?

“The mess, Sherlock. Have you noticed you’re lying on sofa cushions that are _on the floor?_ What in god’s name happened?”

Sherlock checked beneath himself to find that yes, indeed, he was on the floor. Interesting. He didn’t remember that at all. He remembered the collar, and before that—

“I was searching for my cigarettes,” he recalled. “You took them.”

“What, these?”

John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the very pack Sherlock had been looking for. Sherlock was impressed. It hadn’t occurred to him that John would have kept them on his person.

“Yes, although it doesn’t matter now. I was distracted by an unexpected sexual response.”

 _There._ That was better, wasn’t it? To just be out with it now rather than to let it fester in the confines of his own mind until it grew into something it was not.

“Er.” John blinked. “Right, that’s— Well, good for you. I’ll just hold onto these, then, shall I?”

He pocketed the pack of cigarettes and, looking distinctly taken aback, headed towards the stairs.

*

(At age nineteen, Sherlock’s friend Victor had said, “Do you ever wonder about…?” and Sherlock had said, “What?” and then Victor had leaned close and kissed him.

His first (only) kiss. Victor had been in desperate need of a shave and had smelt of tobacco, and Sherlock, blindsided and awkward, had mirrored Victor’s every move in hopes that it would mask how little he knew about what he was doing.

Victor’s lips had been shiny with saliva when he’d pulled back. Sherlock had stared at them dumbly, wondering if kisses were meant to be so wet, so sloppy.

 _Tell me it was good._ His prick had begun to thicken at the thought of Victor’s wet lips mouthing the words; his breath had quickened. _Tell me it was brilliant and you want to do it again._

“Er, well,” Victor had said, ducking his head. Then he’d wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Sorry. Let’s not try that again.”)

*

There was, Sherlock had to admit upon reflection, the possibility of rejection. The mere existence of attraction did not imply a desire to pursue it. After all, Sherlock had only become truly interested after discovering—

 _Ah_ , Sherlock thought, _now that’s an idea._

“Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made!”

Startled, Sherlock glanced up from his microscope to find Mrs Hudson in the doorway, lips pursed as she gazed about the kitchen—which looked, Sherlock thought, no less tidy than it usually did. There wasn’t even any food sitting out.

“And after John spent so much time straightening everything up,” she continued, and began to gather Sherlock’s mould samples and microscope supplies as though they belonged anywhere besides where they were currently located.

“Where is John?” Sherlock wondered.

“At work, I expect. Why?”

“I need examples of classic submissive behaviour, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock told her. He shoved away from the table and stood. “Can you think of any?”

“I beg your pardon? Is this for a case?”

“Of a sort.” Pointless to have asked her, he realised belatedly. He was doubtlessly more of an expert on human behaviour than she, given his line of work. “No matter. Thank you, Mrs Hudson. And I’m sure John will appreciate you cleaning up a bit in here.”

He stopped her protests by bending to kiss her cheek, then scooped up his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He had preparations to make.

*

(After John moved in properly, one of the first things Sherlock had done was to snoop through his computer. He’d found a great deal of pornography in John’s browser history and saved in a folder on his hard drive—unsurprising, given John’s personality—and he had decided to sample it on a whim.

Dull. Entire gigabytes of utter rubbish. A great deal of amateur footage: poorly lit, atrocious sound quality, and primarily scenes of people having a wank. Male and female, of all sizes and ages and degrees of conventional attractiveness, some with toys but most without.

It had been an almost unbearably disappointing discovery. John, an army doctor who had shot someone for Sherlock after having known him only a day, who had called Sherlock _fantastic_ and _extraordinary_ and giggled with him at a crime scene and fit so perfectly into Sherlock’s life—had the most insipid taste in porn Sherlock had ever encountered. Which, he had assumed, meant the rest of John’s sexual interests were similarly insipid.

Sherlock had slammed John’s laptop closed with a huff of disgust.

Yes. Terribly disappointing, indeed.)

*

“Mrs Hudson said you were working on a new case?”

“Mm,” said Sherlock. “Cold case. Suspected murder, although no body was ever found.”

He was knelt on the floor amidst an assortment of crime scene photographs (deferential position, putting himself below John). His shoulders were lowered (self-protective pose) and his elbows tucked against his sides (making himself appear small, nonthreatening). If John was attracted to submissiveness, he would take note.

“Suspected by the Met or suspected by you?” asked John, coming to stand behind him.

Sherlock tilted his chin back (bared throat, vulnerable) to look at him (eye contact, eager to please). “Both. The position of the blood spatters indicates a head injury as the source. Even taking into account that head injuries typically bleed more than other injuries, I think you’d agree it’s rather a lot for a nonfatal blow, yes? The question, then, is: what happened to the body? Seventh-floor flat, all doors locked, not exactly ideal conditions for a murderer absconding with the deceased body of a grown man.”

“You have theories, I suppose?”

“Several.”

John’s lip twitched. Sherlock paid close attention to the dilation of his pupils, the rate of his breathing—no change, no indication of arousal. Sherlock’s displeasure was profound, especially when John turned without a word and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Too subtle, clearly.

*

(At age six, Sherlock had finished his first composition on the violin—his first composition of note, at any rate, something more substantial than an assortment of random notes played one after the other—and been keen to show it off.

So he’d marched to his mother’s study, where she had been hunched over her desk no doubt writing down her observations on her most recent experiment, and he had stood beside her chair while he played for her.

After Sherlock finished, it had taken six repetitions of “Mummy!” to get her to look up from her work.

“Sherlock,” she had sighed, “what have I said about coming into Mummy’s study?”

Sherlock’s next composition had been rather different: based not on an assortment of notes but on how loudly and piercingly he could get his violin to screech.

His mother had responded a great deal more quickly to that one.)

*

The next time John went to make tea, he found a collar wrapped around the base of the kettle. Sherlock, who had been on the sofa for hours waiting patiently for this moment, sat up to watch.

It wasn’t the most appealing collar, certainly: poor-quality white leather with garish purple rhinestones along its length. (It had been the only collar the nearest sex shop had had in stock, and Sherlock hadn’t been keen to wander about London in search of a better one; it was the _idea_ that mattered, after all, not the thing itself.) But neither was it as offensive as John’s behaviour suggested: for several seconds, he did nothing but stare, and then he finally plucked it up, one end clasped between his index finger and thumb, and held it a full arms-length away as he turned to Sherlock.

“Is this yours?” John asked. His expression was curiously blank.

“Yes. It’s a collar.”

“I can see that, thanks. Why is it in the kitchen?”

“So you can see that I have a collar,” Sherlock told him. “Since you have one as well, I thought it might create an ideal opportunity for a conversation about our intersecting interests.”

John dropped his arm and let the collar dangle at his side. His forehead wrinkled as he frowned. “I have one as well, do I? So you went through my things.”

Of course John would fixate on the most irrelevant detail, Sherlock thought sourly. But he wouldn’t be swayed. Mere days ago, he had uncovered what was arguably the most interesting thing about John Watson, and Sherlock would not let that be taken from him now by John being difficult.

“What does it matter?” he said. “The important bit is that you and I have complementary sexual—”

“Interests,” John interrupted. “Yeah, I heard you the first time, and, well—” His eyes flickered to the collar in his hand. “—maybe you’re right, but the thing is, Sherlock, that both of us owning a collar means _bugger all_ in terms of—”

Sherlock dropped to his knees, and John quieted immediately. Then he simply stared, eyes wide and lips parted, as Sherlock lowered himself to his hands and began what he hoped was a slow, sensuous crawl to where John stood dumbly in the kitchen.

By the time Sherlock had come to a stop mere inches from John’s calves, John’s pupils were dilated and he was breathing more heavily. And oh, the way John was gazing down at him…. Numerous people had lusted after Sherlock before, but none had ever looked at him as John did now. Like Sherlock was a long-coveted treasure, like the sight of him at John’s feet was a marvel that John would savour for a long, long while.

Sherlock could feel his own heartbeat quicken, followed by the first weak ache of arousal in his groin. He wanted to preen at the attention. He wanted to remain here on his hands and knees for the rest of the evening and bask in it.

But no, he reminded himself; he had one thing left to do.

Sherlock settled back into a kneel, lifted his chin to expose the full bare column of his throat, and said, “Will you put the collar on me, Master?”

John laughed. For just a moment before he was ducking his head and bringing his hand to his mouth to stifle the sound, but it was enough. Sherlock reared back and felt impossibly, excruciatingly stupid.

“Sorry,” John said, his laughter finally under control. “Sorry, that was, er. It’s just that you proved my point right then.”

Sherlock stumbled to his feet, raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Everything seemed terribly clear now: he’d let sentiment cloud his logic. He’d wanted John’s sexual interests to be compatible with his own; he’d convinced himself that they were.

“Sorry,” John said again. He lifted the collar with a sort of cringing, forced smile. “You know, for a moment I thought you might’ve had this one because it looks a bit like a real pet collar, but, um… obviously not.”

 _No_ , Sherlock thought with a snarl, _obviously not_ , and then John’s meaning sunk in. His mind began to whir. _A real pet collar_. John was a doctor, a caretaker, loyal, fiercely protective. _Of course!_ Why hadn’t Sherlock seen it before?

“There’s always something with you, isn’t there?” he said.

John blinked. “Er. Sure, all right. I suppose I’ll just… give this back, then.” He handed the collar to Sherlock, then all but fled to his room.

*

(A couple, devastated over the disappearance of their cat. He with heavy bags beneath his eyes and she clasping a crumbled tissue, they had sat on Sherlock’s sofa and offered him £1,000 if he could locate the missing creature.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock had told John after they’d left. “It’s probably dead, run over by a lorry or something similar. They’d be better off to simply buy a new pet than to waste £1,000 on that one.”

“For some people,” John had said tersely, “a pet is precious. Irreplaceable. A concept that’s beyond your understanding, I’m sure.”

“Ah, yes. _Sentiment_ ,” Sherlock had agreed, and they hadn’t spoken for the rest of the afternoon.)

*

“Do you prefer your pets to be canines or felines?”

John, seated in the armchair with the morning paper, looked up at Sherlock standing over him and blinked rather stupidly at the question. “Are you— Sherlock, you can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” said Sherlock. “After all, Master/slave roleplay shares a number of qualities with pet roleplay. The illusion of a supremely unequal relationship, for instance. Humiliation. Degradation. Punishment for bad behaviour, praise for good behaviour.”

A pleasant shiver trickled through Sherlock at the last bit—the thought of the things John would coo at him when Sherlock proved he could be a suitably obedient pet—although he endeavoured to keep his expression neutral.

He wasn’t entirely sure he succeeded; John’s eyes widened slightly, although Sherlock had said nothing surprising. No matter: John would discover for himself what Sherlock enjoyed soon enough—if they ever _got on with it_ , of course.

John folded the paper and set it on his knees. “Interested in all that, are you?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock just barely suppressed an eye roll.

“Surely you realise that both of us being interested in a particular kink doesn’t say anything about our compatibility as—”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock snapped, his patience with this little game abruptly gone. “And if you attempt to insist that you feel no attraction towards me, I’ll be forced to list—in _excruciating_ detail—every indicator of arousal you have shown in response to—”

“Right, enough of that, thanks,” John said. He shoved the paper to the arm of the chair, then stood, as though he intended to walk away, dismiss the entire thing, and Sherlock felt—

Distress. Devastation. It was Victor wiping Sherlock’s saliva from his lips all over again, Sherlock’s mother sighing in disappointment at her son’s behaviour.

Sherlock had gone to his knees almost before he’d made the decision to do so. A bit manipulative, he knew, almost certainly in the realm of not-good to use one of John’s sexual kinks to get and keep his attention, but it worked. John stopped and simply stood, staring down at Sherlock. His attention was like a beam of warm sunlight on Sherlock’s skin.

“Cat,” said Sherlock, slowly, pointedly, “or dog?”

John swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. “Both have their good points,” he said. “I’m not fussy.”

A bit of both, then. Sherlock could do that.

After a long moment of consideration, John stepped closer and began to stroke his hair gently, running his palm back and forth over the surface. His expression was thoughtful, but the touch was… something very close to worshipful. With a small sound of pleasure, Sherlock closed his eyes and revelled in it.

“Fine,” John said softly. “We can… all right. I think a bath might be a good place to start, yeah?”

When Sherlock reopened his eyes, he found John smiling fondly down at him. And even though he’d had a shower not five hours ago, Sherlock nodded. If John wanted him to have a bath, then Sherlock would be bathed. That was the point of this, wasn’t it, to do what John wanted?

“I’m going to get some things ready,” John continued, “and when I’m finished, I want to find you out of these clothes and waiting for me in front of the tub. All right?”

Sherlock nodded again, although when he began to stand to do as John had asked, John clasped a handful of Sherlock’s hair and kept him down.

“Sherlock.” John’s smile had lost none of its fondness, even as his grip on Sherlock’s hair was tight, edging dangerously close to painful. “ _Crawl._ ”

*

(“Sex doesn’t alarm me,” Sherlock had said.

It was mostly true.)

*

Sherlock put on the collar. He knew it was impractical—he would have to take it off if he was indeed about to be bathed—but he thought that John might appreciate the gesture. There was also something strangely arousing, if odd, about kneeling on the bathmat in nothing but a collar.

Well, it would have been arousing if Sherlock weren’t distracted by thoughts of what John was planning. A bath meant John wanted him to be clean: his genitalia in particular, given the sexual context, and thus almost certainly his anus—Sherlock supposed he would be buggered before the night was done.

He wondered if he should inform John that he’d never been buggered before. Then when Sherlock took it like a perfect little whore—which he was determined to do, even if he had to sham his way through the entire act—John would be impressed; he would slather Sherlock in praise and perhaps even give up his pathetic attempts at relationships with women so he could have Sherlock again and again. And _oh_ , wasn’t that a lovely thought?

Finally, John appeared in the doorway, a fresh towel draped over his right arm.

“Well, hello,” he said, looking pleased at the sight that awaited him. As he approached, he lowered his left hand, held it expectantly in front of Sherlock’s face.

A cat might’ve butted his head against it. A dog might’ve shoved his muzzle into it, coated the skin in saliva. Sherlock did both, knocking the side of John’s hand with his forehead and then lifting his chin so he could nuzzle the palm and lick along John’s lifeline.

It felt ridiculous; Sherlock was certain for a terrible moment that he would be laughed at. But then John cupped his cheek, fingers gently stroking Sherlock’s jaw, and said, “Oh, that’s nice.” Admiration was thick in his tone, and Sherlock promptly stopped giving a toss how ridiculous it felt. He knocked and nuzzled and licked until he had his own saliva smeared all over his face.

“Good boy,” John said, smiling, and Sherlock had to close his eyes a moment, the rush of pleasure was so strong.

Then John pulled away, and stooped to remove Sherlock’s collar and fill the tub with water.

It went, unfortunately, a bit downhill after that.

In utter silence, John washed Sherlock’s hair, then his shoulders and chest, and it was such a gentle, painstaking process that Sherlock could have fallen asleep like that, kneeling in three inches of warm water while John’s hands massaged him. By that point, the pleasure had long since faded, and Sherlock wanted to shout at him to just get on with it already.

But pets didn’t talk, did they? So he stayed silent, let John do as he pleased, dull though it was.

“Okay,” John said, “hands and knees now.”

Sherlock moved quickly, obediently. Lapsing back into silence, John continued to wash Sherlock’s back, dipping lower, into the lumbar curve and just skimming the top of Sherlock’s sacrum.

 _Ah_ , Sherlock thought, _finally we’re getting somewhere._ He shifted his knees farther apart, tilted his hips up in a clear invitation.

With a thoughtful hum, John ran his thumb along Sherlock’s tailbone, then down between his arse cheeks to circle Sherlock’s hole.

It felt like… nothing, really. Like someone was touching his anus, which was precisely what it was. Awkward, a bit uncomfortable. Very disappointing. _Not terribly exciting so far_ , he thought sourly, _this sex lark._

“All right?” John asked.

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Of course it was all right. Did John honestly think Sherlock would let him continue if it wasn’t?

“ _Sherlock._ ” There was a hand in Sherlock’s hair, yanking his head back until he was staring into John’s severe expression. John’s grip didn’t loosen even as Sherlock grimaced in pain. “Don’t roll your bloody eyes when I ask you a question, you twat. In words, please: _is this all right_?”

And although it went against the entire purpose of this roleplaying exercise, Sherlock tightened his lips and hissed, “Yes.”

Immediately, John’s expression softened, and his grip loosened. “Good,” he murmured. His thumb returned to circling over and over Sherlock’s arsehole. “Very good.”

It was ridiculous, how quickly Sherlock’s body responded. A single, one-syllable word of praise, and his breath caught; his cock, hanging limply between his legs, twitched and threatened to swell.

“Oh,” said John, sounding awed as he abandoned Sherlock’s bum to fondle his testicles instead, then stroke along the underside of his cock. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

Sherlock would have fallen face-first into the water, startled by the touch and the sudden spike of lust in his groin, but John steadied him just in time, wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and encouraged him to lean against the side of the tub. Sherlock’s head rested against John’s chest, soaking the front of John’s jumper.

“I suppose this’ll be just another thing you’re right about,” said John. He sounded fond as he carded his fingers through Sherlock’s wet hair. “I expected you to be into… all the bits that don’t interest me, to be honest, but you’re perfect, aren’t you? You gorgeous thing, you just want to be spoiled.”

 _Oh, please._ Sherlock was hard now, rubbing his cheek against John’s jumper as his eyes fluttered closed. His moan, when John’s free hand soaped up and returned to his bottom, was positively sluttish, and though he recognised that he should feel ashamed of himself for it, he didn’t. He couldn’t, not when John’s response was a murmured “Good boy. The best pet I could have asked for.”

Sherlock moaned, rubbing his arse all over John’s hand, and would have gladly impaled himself on any or all of John’s fingers if John would have let him, but he wouldn’t. He tutted and took his hand away and said, “None of that. Soap and water’s not a substitute for proper lube.”

Which Sherlock knew, of course he did, but he still wanted it very, very badly. His prick ached, and he felt warm water dribbling between his arse cheeks as John rinsed him off; it proved to be a heady combination.

“All done,” said John. “Now, come on, I’ll help you dry.”

He helped Sherlock out of the tub and onto his knees on the bathmat before wrapping him in a towel. Sherlock began to feel odd, warm and hazy with desire, almost floaty, as John’s hands stroked the damp fringe from his forehead. _Knock, nuzzle, lick,_ he recalled, and did just that. John’s palm tasted of soap. Not especially appetising, but Sherlock dragged his tongue over and over it anyway.

John let him, cupped his jaw and dragged his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone, humming pleasantly. “Well, that was quick. You’re already starting to go under, aren’t you?”

Sherlock opened his eyes as John stood, putting him at roughly eye level with John’s cock, which was clearly hard in his trousers. Sherlock swayed forwards, wanting to knock and nuzzle and lick at that instead, but John stepped back, smiling down at him.

“Mm, no, not yet. I like to wait. But believe me, when I want it, you’ll know,” he said. “Now, I need to clean up here. Go and wait for me on the sofa—and take the towel with you. I’ll use it to dry your hair.”

Without a word, Sherlock made his way on his hands and knees to the sitting room, holding a corner of the towel in his teeth while the rest of it dragged between his limbs.

*

(“Jim Moriarty calls John your pet,” The Woman had said once. “But he’s got it wrong, hasn’t he? It’s the other way around.”

She had been the cleverer one by far.)

*

“You’re more of a cat, aren’t you,” said John.

The amount of effort it took for Sherlock to focus on the words was… surprising, perhaps a bit alarming, but he soon forgot about that, when John’s slick fingers dipped between his parted thighs and swept along his perineum. Just long enough for Sherlock to moan once and try to spread himself even wider, before John left off, trailing his hand up Sherlock’s spine and burying it in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock whimpered pitifully and rubbed his nose along John’s thigh in silent supplication, but John only stroked his hair and made soothing noises.

“You just want to laze about and be petted,” he continued after a moment. “If you could, you’d be purring right now.”

Sherlock doubted that. If anything, he suspected that he would be mewling pathetically, a pleading kitten pawing at the legs of its owner. He had been laying here on the sofa for ages now, nude but for the collar around his neck, his head pillowed on John’s thigh while John ran his lubricated fingertips up and down Sherlock’s spine, dirtied his freshly washed and dried hair, and teased at his arsehole.

“Maybe you’ll be a puppy for me some other time,” John said. “I could plug your bum with one of those little tails, have you hump my leg. Would you like that?”

He dragged his nails down Sherlock’s nape, skipped over the collar, and continued between his shoulder blades. Sherlock shivered and buried his face in John’s trouser leg, his hands clawing ineffectually at the sofa. He couldn’t stop himself from squirming, arching into John’s hand when it returned to his bottom to palm Sherlock’s arse cheeks, then slip between them and prod gently at Sherlock’s hole.

 _Oh. Oh, yes._ Sherlock bit his lip, whining. He wanted so badly. He wanted John to get him so open and wet that he leaked lubricant all over the sofa cushions; he wanted John to call him _perfect_ again; he wanted John to haul him up by his collar and make him sit on John’s cock until he cried.

“Course you would,” John continued. “Because you’re my good boy, aren’t you? My perfect little pet.”

 _Oh_. Sherlock felt his toes curl. His prick throbbed, trapped between his belly and the sofa, and he couldn’t resist wriggling a bit, rubbing against the cushion with a quiet, blissful groan.

“Look at you. You lovely thing.” John was practically cooing at him. One hand still toyed with his arsehole, while the other came to stroke his hair from his forehead. The touch was distinctly reverent. “You need it, don’t you? All right. You’ve been so good. You can have it.”

 _Oh, please_. Sherlock bent his knees beneath him, spread his thighs as wide as he could, and finally John eased a finger into him.

It felt filthy. The sensation was vaguely familiar, a bit like using the toilet, but it was also entirely foreign. It felt depraved, base. Utterly unnatural.

It was glorious.

“Look at me,” John said.

Sherlock did, resting his cheek on John’s thigh. He wanted to preen at the expression on John’s face. Like there was nothing in the world but Sherlock, like he would never give a whit about anything else again.

“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” John said. He was breathing so heavily he was nearly panting. He hadn’t been touched at all—his unattended erection bulged prominently in his trousers mere inches from where Sherlock’s head lay—and he’d been reduced to _panting_ by just the sight of Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered at the thought. He would be touching himself to this memory for years; he was sure of it.

Time went hazy for a bit. The sensation of a finger up his arse stopped feeling sublimely dirty and began to feel simply sublime. One finger became two, plunging into him so deeply that he rocked with the motion, shoving his face into John’s thigh with a low, throaty sob. John replenished the lubricant often, so that Sherlock’s thighs and testicles were sticky with it, and every thrust of John’s fingers into his hole brought with it an obscene, wet sound that made Sherlock whimper and squirm.

He would want this again. Now that he’d had it, he would never be able to live without it. He’d crave it daily. He’d gladly crawl about the flat in nothing but a collar so he’d be ready whenever John wanted, so he could merely put his arse in the air and relish the sensation of having it filled with fingers, toys, cock while John stroked his hair and called him a _perfect little pet_.

If this was sex, there was little wonder the rest of the population was so stupid. Sherlock was ruined. Three fingers now, fucking him slowly but relentlessly, and he could do nothing but try to hold himself still, ignore the torturous throbbing of his neglected cock, and wail helplessly into John’s thigh.

“Shush,” John said. “Do you want Mrs Hudson to hear?”

By that point, though, Sherlock hardly cared. At least until John brought his free hand to Sherlock’s face and said, “Here. Something to keep your mouth busy.” Then Sherlock lifted his head and took three fingers into his mouth, moaning, feeling like a greedy whore, stuffed from both ends.

But no, he was meant to be a cat tonight, wasn’t that what John had said? He pulled off and licked them instead, bathed all three fingers with short, kittenish swipes of his tongue and then moved on to do the same to John’s palm when he was offered that as well.

“That’s good,” said John. He twisted the fingers in Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock cried out as his prick jerked, dribbling precome. “Such a pretty, clever kitty you are. Up, now. On your knees.”

Gingerly, Sherlock raised himself to his knees and elbows, then shook with a piteous moan when John moved his newly saliva-wet hand to circle the crown of Sherlock’s prick.

“Christ. Look at you. You’re dripping.” John sounded awed. His hand made slick sounds as it slid along Sherlock’s shaft, the perfect complement to the sound of his wet fingers in Sherlock’s hole. “I bet it hurts, doesn’t it? You’re so hard. You want to come so badly.”

Sherlock did. He was trembling with it. He couldn’t stop moaning, thinking _Please, oh, please_ as his cock continued to twitch and leak in the torturous parody of an orgasm with every thrust of John’s fingers.

“Go on, then,” John said, sweetly. “You can let go. You deserve it. You’ve been so good for me.”

With a cry, Sherlock rocked his hips in little pulses, fucked himself on John’s fingers and into John’s grip until he finally dropped his head and came.

*

(“Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?” Sherlock had asked. And then: “Want to see some more?”

He’d had, by that point, decades of experience predicting people’s reactions. Consequently, he’d long ceased giving himself a figurative pat on the back every time one of his predictions was correct.

So Sherlock hadn’t been prepared for the shock of sheer, childlike delight he’d felt when John had answered, “Oh god yes.”)

*

In the aftermath of Sherlock’s orgasm, John returned to stroking his back. It felt soothing now, enough so that Sherlock thought muzzily he might quite like to curl up here on the sofa in John’s lap and have a nap, but he still had the presence of mind to recall that John was still unsatisfied and that Sherlock was in a prime position to take care of that.

With a contented sigh, he nuzzled at the bulge in John’s trousers, pressed his open mouth to the seam, and ran his tongue along the zip. John’s responding moan was pained, even needy, but he laid his hand on the top of Sherlock’s head in a way that clearly said _stop_.

“In a minute,” he said. “I really wasn’t joking about liking to wait. For now, if you want, just lay your head— _oh_ , like that.”

Sherlock rested his cheek obediently against John’s cock, keeping utterly still as John petted his hair with a quiet groan. He could feel it pulse; he could _smell_ how badly John needed to be touched.

“Interesting,” said Sherlock. The first word he’d spoken in hours. It felt strange to talk again, and his voice sounded inordinately loud in the silent room.

John didn’t seem to notice. “What is?”

“Orgasm denial is generally a submissive activity.”

“Oh yeah? Actually, what’s interesting is how, despite what a bloody genius you are in everything else, you’re consistently ignorant about what complex creatures we humans are,” John said, sounding amused. The hand in Sherlock’s hair trailed lower, dipping beneath Sherlock’s collar to pet the skin beneath.

Ah. That reminded him.

“I want it thrown out,” Sherlock said. “The collar in your room, the black one. And if anyone else ever wears a collar for you, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

He expected some amount of resistance, for John to suggest something inane like selling it instead—utterly unacceptable, of course; it was rubbish now, so it would be binned like rubbish—but John only said, “All right,” and began to scratch behind Sherlock’s ear.

Which felt surprisingly good. Sherlock closed his eyes with a soft noise of pleasure, bringing his knees up so he was practically curled around John’s waist. His skin had begun to itch a bit where his ejaculate had dried, but he ignored that for now, basked in John’s attention, utterly content.

“My god, you’re perfect,” John said. “Look at you. Such a good kitty, aren’t you.”

 _Mm, yes._ Sherlock thought now he really would have purred if he could. Perhaps he would practise the next time he was alone in the flat. Wouldn’t John be impressed with him then, if he taught himself to purr?

Sherlock nuzzled at John’s cock, and this time John didn’t stop him. Instead, the hand that came to card its fingers through Sherlock’s hair was beseeching, coaxing. Sherlock glanced up and found John’s eyes dark, his expression pinched with want.

“May I touch you now?” Sherlock asked.

John licked his lips. “Oh god yes.”


End file.
